


Rest

by NuMo



Category: Warehouse 13
Genre: F/F, Hurt/Comfort, the biggest gentlest hug of comfort for a hurt exhausted agent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-03
Updated: 2020-11-03
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:40:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27365947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NuMo/pseuds/NuMo
Summary: "But the fact of the matter is that love can be this. Love can be throwing your whole entire weight on her – sometimes metaphorically, sometimes literally – and letting her help you carry it for a while."One agent comes home, tired and exhausted after weeks of stress and strain, and gets comforted by the woman she loves. I left open who is who on purpose; my intention is less to make you guess and more to give you, reader, the biggest, gentlest hug of comfort. Because on a day like today, and in the weeks that are sure to follow, we will all need comfort.
Relationships: Myka Bering/Helena "H. G." Wells
Comments: 15
Kudos: 33





	Rest

**Author's Note:**

> So... I can't vote. I can't hug anyone except my wife (and believe me, there's a lot of hugging going on). But I CAN write.
> 
> Here is the biggest, gentlest, written comfort hug for all of you. Please enjoy as often as you want or need.

“The task is done. You’re home. I’m here.” 

That’s what she tells you when you drag your feet through the door to your bedroom. You give a sound in reply that you’d like to think of as a hum of acknowledgement, but in all honesty? It’s a tired little groan.

You’re exhausted.

“The task is done,” she says again. “You’re home. And I’m here.” And then she holds out her arms and walks towards you, and you sink into her embrace. “It’s done,” she whispers into your hair. “It’s over. You’re safe and home.” Her arms squeeze your shoulders tighter; your arms hang limply at your side. 

This godforsaken _asshole_ of an artifact has been on the Warehouse’s radar for years, and you’ve spent the last weeks hunting it, getting too little sleep, always a step too late, just in time to deal with the consequences, the people left hurt in its wake. Despite your years of service, you’d been unable to fathom the depths of sheer evil that this fucker was capable of – you grit your teeth. It’s over now, you tell yourself, it’s done. The woman who holds you, the woman whom you love: she’s right. 

You suck in a breath and it stutters in your throat and comes out as a sob. Her stance changes instantly; she shifts, plants her feet, slides her hands on your back so that one comes to rest at the nape of your neck and the other all the way around your back on the other side of your waist. 

She has gotten perfect at hugging – you both have. And, mindful of the mutual aspect of support, you make a questioning sound, you pull back slightly – you need to know that she’s okay; she worried, you know she did. She always does when you’re in the field and she isn’t with you. You do too, when she is. You need to know that she can give you this without hurting herself; you’ll pull yourself together if you need to, for her. 

In response, her arms pull you in again. “I’m alright,” she reassures you. “I’ve got you. Relax, love, I’ve got you.”

It’s all you need to hear. You’ve come to acknowledge that; grudgingly, yes, but the fact of the matter is that love can be this. Love can be throwing your whole entire weight on her – sometimes metaphorically, sometimes literally – and letting her help you carry it for a while. You’ve helped her carry, she’s helped you; you know, now, that loads can get lighter when you share them with her. 

Her stance, her words – she’s got you. You can sink into her arms. You can let her take your weight. 

You do. 

For a long, long while, you just stand together. You feel her breaths rise and fall against you, the softness of her sleep shirt on your cheek, her fingers lightly stroking the fuzz of hair that you haven’t managed to pull into your ponytail or tame with bobby pins. Your head swims for a while and she is your rock; you manage to curl your fingers into the side hem of her sleep pants. You need to cling to something, and the fabric is patient even when you clench your hands tight around it.

Slowly, your breaths even out; slowly, she shifts where she stands. “Bed?” she asks, and you nod against her shoulder. She moves the two of you, her hand on your waist giving you your clues in this short shuffled dance. She turns you so you can sit first, and the moment your butt touches the mattress, before she can make a single move to your side, you sink forward again, seeking out her warmth, her steadiness. You rest your cheek against her belly and sling your arms around her hips, but you can’t hold them up for long; your arms sink down again and she catches your head with one hand to your jaw while her other hand curls around your shoulder. 

“It’s alright,” she whispers, and repeats, “I’ve got you.”

In reply, you snuggle your face tighter into the crook between her arm and her belly. You can feel her breath deepen as she gives an almost silent hum; her hand loosens its hold on your shoulder and starts stroking gently across your trapezoids. A shudder runs through you as her touch bids your muscles release their tension.

The two of you stay like this for a dozen breaths; mindful of her ministrations, you try to relax your shoulders every time you exhale. Weeks of tightly coiled anxiety don’t let go easily, though, and you groan in appreciation when her touch becomes stronger, when her fingers start digging into your muscles, unraveling your knots. 

Halfway through she takes out your ponytail holder and hairpins. You can feel her bend at the waist to deposit them on the bedside table, you can feel the muscles of her core, strong and capable, move underneath your cheek. You move with her as much as you are able to, loath to lose contact. When your hair tumbles down around your ears and onto your neck you realize that your entire head holds the same tension your neck and shoulders do. And then her fingertips dig into your scalp and your lungs give up another shuddering groan.

From the crown of your head down your back as far as her arms can reach, her fingers roam and dance, rolling a muscle here, massaging a knot there – she lingers at the base of your skull and the hinge of your jaw, because she knows how you grind your teeth when you’re under stress. 

(She will slide her finger down your cheek sometimes to remind you to unclench. You will slide your finger down between her shoulder blades sometimes to remind her to unhunch. The past weeks – months, really – have wreaked havoc on your molars, her posture; your friends have stopped teasing you about ‘PDAs’ and started reminding you in their turn. 

They are family, and you cherish their love.)

There is no end to your love for her; and with every move of hers she tells you there’s no end of her love for you either. Every touch is a cord that grounds you in the love between the two of you, a bond that connects you to her, simple ties and clever knots (because anything she does with her fingers will be clever, metaphorically or not). Where once you might have found the idea constricting, where once you might have run, here with her the ties between you are safety, trust, reliance; they make your breath come more freely, they make your tears finally fall. 

You know she’s noticed when her breath changes again against your cheek, when her hands curl around your head for a moment, holding you close. Then her fingers resume their motions on your head and on your shoulders. And that very act reassures you – she knows your tears, she knows how to handle your crying. She knows you, better than anyone else; she knows what to do – she’s got you, just like she said. 

When you start sobbing, she pushes gently against your shoulder until you shift and lie down, then she pulls you into her embrace. Your leg slides over hers, your arm comes to rest across her ribcage, and she rolls until she’s facing you, and wraps you in her arms. Safe and secure, trusted and loved, you cry until the knot in your chest stops feeling as big as it does. You can feel her lips on your forehead every now and then, on your hair, your temple, your cheek. Gentle reassurance, a web of love that she weaves like a safety net around you, her arms your blanket, her steadiness your strength. 

The task is done. You’re home. She’s here.

It’s all you need to feel.

You rest.


End file.
